Charlotte looked away. “I know. Anything could happen to him, and it would be days before I’d even hear.”

“Nothing will happen to him,” Emily said quickly. “And I can see that he’s safer there than still where they can find him.” But there was more courage in her voice than conviction. She hurried on. “What can we do to help?”

“I’ve been to see Mrs. Fetters,” Charlotte replied, mimicking the same positive tone. “But she doesn’t know anything. I’m trying to think what to do next. There has to be some connection between the two men that they quarreled over, but the more I learn about Martin Fetters, the more he seems an unusually decent man who harmed no one.”

“Then you aren’t looking in the right places,” Emily said frankly. “I assume you have tried all the obvious things: money, blackmail, a woman, rivalry for some position or other?” She looked puzzled. “Why were they friends anyway?”

“Travel and political reform, so far as his wife knows.” Charlotte finished folding the last of the sheets. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Not especially. But I’d rather sit in the kitchen than stand here in the linen cupboard,” Emily responded. “Does anyone quarrel seriously over travel?”

“I doubt it. And they didn’t even travel to the same places. Mr. Fetters went to the Near East, and Adinett went to France, and he had been to Canada in the past.”

“Then it’s politics.” Emily followed her down the stairs and along the corridor to the kitchen. She said hello to Gracie in a matter-of-fact way. In no one else’s house would she have spoken to the maid, but she knew of Charlotte ’s regard for her.

Charlotte put on the kettle. “They both wanted reform,” she went on.

Emily sat down, nicking her skirts expertly so they were not crushed. “Doesn’t everyone? Jack says it’s getting pretty desperate.” She looked down at her hands on the table, small and elegant, and surprisingly strong. “There have always been rumblings of unrest, but it’s a lot worse now than even ten years ago. There are so many foreigners coming into London and not enough work. I suppose there have been anarchists for years, but there are more of them now, and they are very violent.”

Charlotte knew that. It was in the newspapers often enough, including the trial of the French anarchist for the assassination of Carnot. And she knew that in London they were largely in the East End, where the poverty was worst and the dissatisfaction the highest. That was the official excuse for sending Pitt there.

“What?” Emily said quickly, seeing her sister’s expression. “What is it?”

“Are they really a danger, do you think? I mean, more than the individual lunatic?”

Emily considered for a moment before answering. Charlotte wondered whether it was to search for the right words, to examine her knowledge, or worst of all, if it were a matter of tact. If it were the last, then the instinctive answer must be very ugly. It was not Emily’s nature to be indirect, which was quite different from being devious, at which she was brilliant.

“Actually,” she said quietly when Gracie had brewed the tea and brought it, “I think Jack is really worried, not about anarchists, who are only individual madmen, but about the feeling everywhere. The monarchy is very unpopular, you know, and not just with the sort of people you would expect, but with some who are very important and perhaps you would not think.”

“Unpopular?” Charlotte was puzzled. “In what way? I know people think the Queen should do far more, but they’ve said that for thirty years. Does Jack think it’s any different now?”

“I don’t know that it’s different.” Emily was very grave. She chose her words carefully, weighing them before she spoke. “But he says it is much more serious. The Prince of Wales spends an enormous amount of money, you know, and most of it is borrowed. He owes all over the place, and to all kinds of people. He doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself, and if he realizes what harm it is doing, then he doesn’t care.”

“Political harm?” Charlotte asked.

“Eventually, yes.” Emily lowered her voice. “There are some people who think that when the old Queen dies that will be the end of the monarchy.”

Charlotte was startled. “Really?” It was a surprisingly unpleasant thought. She was not quite sure why she minded. It would take some of the color out of life, some of the glamour. Even if you never saw the countesses and the duchesses, if there was no way in the world you would ever be a lady, far less a princess, it would make things a little grayer if they should not exist anymore. People would always have heroes, real or false. There was nothing essentially noble about the aristocracy. But then the heroes who would be put in their places would not necessarily be chosen for their virtue or achievement; it might as easily be for wealth or beauty. Then the magic would be gone for no reason, no gain.

All of which was a silly argument, and she knew it. What mattered was the change, and a change born of hatred was frightening because so often it was done without thought or knowledge. So much could not be foreseen.

“That’s what Jack says.” Emily was watching her closely, her tea forgotten. “And what bothers him the most is that there are powerful interests who are royalist and will do anything to keep things as they are… and I mean anything!” She bit her lip. “When he said that, I pressed him what he meant, and he wouldn’t answer me. He went quiet and sort of… into himself, the way he does if he isn’t well. It seems an odd thing to say, but I think he was afraid.” She stopped abruptly, looking down at her hands again, as if she had said something of which she was ashamed. Perhaps she had not meant to reveal so much of what was vulnerable, and therefore private.

Charlotte felt chilled. There was too much to be afraid of already. She wished to know more, but there was no point in pressing Emily. If she had been able to tell her then she would have done so. It was an ugly and lonely thought. “You don’t realize how much you value what you have, with all its problems, until someone threatens to destroy it and put his own ideas in its place,” she said ruefully. “I don’t mind a little change, but I don’t want a lot. Can you have a little change, do you suppose? Or does it have to be all or nothing? Do they have to smash everything in order to make any of it different?”

“That depends on the people,” Emily replied with a tight, sad little smile. “If you’ll bend, then no. If you won’t, if you do a Marie Antoinette, then perhaps it’s either the crown or the guillotine.”

“Was she really so stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s just an example. No one’s going to behead our Queen. At least I don’t imagine so.”

“I don’t suppose the French imagined so either,” Charlotte said dryly. “I wish I hadn’t thought of that!”

“We aren’t French.” Emily’s voice was firm, even angry.

“Tell Charles I,” Charlotte retorted, picturing in her mind Van Dyke’s sad, brilliant portrait of that unfortunate man, stubborn to his beliefs right to the scaffold.

“That wasn’t a revolution.” Emily retreated to the literal.

“It was a civil war. Is that any better?” Charlotte argued.

“It’s only talk! Politicians having nightmares. If it wasn’t over that, it would be something else- Ireland, taxes, an eight-hour day, or drains.” She shrugged elegantly. “If there isn’t something awful to solve, why would we need them?”

“We probably don’t… at least, most of the time.”

“That’s what they’re afraid of.” Emily stood up. “Do you want to come with us to the National Gallery and see the exhibition?”

“No, thank you. I’m going to see Mrs. Fetters again. I think you may be right-it’s probably politics.”

Charlotte arrived at Great Coram Street a little after eleven o’clock. It was a most unsuitable time for calling on anyone, but this was not a social visit, and it had the one advantage that she would be excessively unlikely to run into anyone else and have to explain her presence.